The Not Smile
by scrambled-eggs-at-midnight
Summary: It's tongue-in-cheek, a colorful lie; a truth buried in snarky remarks and scathing words.  It's lips pulled back and teeth gleaming bright, bared in a grin that he doesn't recognize but knows he remembers. Prompt 12 of "26: Theifshipping Style."


**A/N: Prompt number twelve of **_**26: Theifshipping Style. **_**More of a writing exercise than anything else, since it's so very short, and I'm still not too sure about the ending, but there you go. Also, aaannngggsstt. Buckets and buckets of angst. Which has been puzzling me lately, since the original fic is quite light-hearted. XD**

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed and such. **

He's not sure what that look is, but it's not a smile.

It's tongue-in-cheek, a colorful lie; a truth buried in snarky remarks and scathing words. It's lips pulled back and teeth gleaming bright, bared in a grin that he doesn't recognize but knows he remembers.

Malik watches Bakura, watches his not-quite smile. There's something hiding there behind that look, that look that he thinks he knows.

Malik can't help himself. He's the child in the museum who can't quite keep his hands back; the one at the zoo who has to reach through the bars and stick his hand in the lion's mouth.

He wonders if lions know how to smile.

Bakura's mouth tastes like cigarettes, cheap wine, and the blood that no amount of drinking can cover up. His teeth catch Malik's lip, pulling him down into that smile that's not, breaking skin and spilling copper-flavored red against his Cheshire grin. Malik knows where he's seen that not-smile when Bakura wraps his thin fingers around his wrist and digs his nails into the skin. He sees it in the mirror every morning, sees it on the face of the boy he used to know.

The boy looks at him sadly sometimes, sorrow painted around his smirk. He doesn't like this life, doesn't like the shell he has to live in. This is the boy who wanted to ride a motorcycle, who studied his lessons and painted pictures on the wall. This is the boy he's given up for something else that wasn't entirely worth the trade.

Sometimes, the not-a-smile is painted on the face of a boy with eyes like glass and a scream on his lips. This is the boy who scares Malik, who he's seeing more and more of every day. This is also the boy who Bakura takes in his arms and whispers terrible, horrible things to until Malik doesn't think he can ever un-see the blood and the guts spread out over his fingers like so much hate.

Bakura laughs at him around that not-smile, pins him to the bed and makes him writhe in pain and something that might be pleasure, if he cares to examine it more closely. They're past the point of caring, past the point where the sex means something and the nights don't blur together like a watercolor painting on the sweat-soaked sheets. Their relationship is like Bakura's un-smile. It's a lie; a cover over the truth that neither of them want to hear.

"You don't love me."

It's not a question, because Bakura doesn't ask questions. He just _knows_. Not like someone told him, but like he figured it out all by himself. The worst sort of detective.

"No," Malik says, because he knows how to lie, too. "No, I don't love you."

Thing is, though, he's not even sure it really is a lie anymore. Maybe if he says it enough, he thinks, he can force himself to believe it. Love is a dangerous path to tread, especially with someone like Bakura. The wolves are at his heels, and he really should stop throwing them scraps. It's too easy though. Bakura makes it too damn easy.

"That's good," Bakura murmurs, curving his lips back into their not-smile. Malik shudders.

"Love is for morons," Bakura says smoothly, sliding his hands over Malik's eyes. Like he doesn't want him to see. Like he's trying to protect him. Malik wants to laugh, because that's just _too fucking funny_, but it comes up as more of a sob and he chokes it back down.

Bakura presses his teeth to Malik's neck. "I'm glad to know you're better than that," he whispers, biting softly. "After all, you need me. And I need someone strong." A chuckle. "Who'd have ever thought it would be you, though?"

Malik doesn't bother to ask what he means, because isn't better than that. He isn't strong. He's a little boy trapped in a cage built by people who knew his fate long before he did. He's a victim of a voice in the darkness and a knife that gave him no other choice. A victim of a smirk that caught on to his heart with its razor sharp edges and hasn't let go since.

If lions could smile, Malik thinks, no one would ever notice. They'd be too busy looking at the teeth.


End file.
